Smoked

At twelve I was obsessed with cigarettes. The way they dangled from lips and fingers, the provocative inhaling and exhaling, the muted sound of lips compressing and releasing. I even liked the smell, forbidden and exotic, slightly harsh. My parents didn't smoke, told me it was a nasty habit. But I'd always been drawn to nasty things. I examined the cigarette ads in magazines, watched the glossy-faced women in shockingly high heels curl manicured fingers around the ends of these mysterious, smoldering wands. I was particularly interested in the ladies' cigarettes, the abnormally long and slender kind that had tiny pastel foil stripes around the end. They were delicate. Sexy. After months of imagining what I would look like brandishing a cigarette, practicing how I would hold it, how my lips would look pursed around the filter, I finally had my chance to smoke. My parents had a guest for dinner, a man who smoked. I waited impatiently through the long meal. The adults were still gathered around the table after I asked to be excused, a pack of stolen matches burning a hole in my back pocket. The crickets stopped their chattering when I went out to the driveway. I played listlessly with the bud of a flower, peeling the layers of unformed petals, making sure no one was around. I strolled ever so casually over to our guest's car. I was relieved to notice the window was down. There was just enough light to see his pack of Benson & Hedges resting in the center console. I fidgeted with the edge of my t-shirt, flipped the hair out of my eyes, darted looks behind me at the door. Breathing heavily, I lunged inside the window, my hand snaking out to grab the pack and plucking one cigarette, drawing it back quickly into the curve of my hand. Inconspicuous. My cool deserting me, I ran across the driveway and down the front path toward the dark corner of the yard on the other side of the house. Crouching down behind a hedge, I examined my pilfered cigarette. It was the first time I'd seen one up close. Bits of tobacco fell from the open end. As I rolled it between my fingers, feeling the soft cotton of the filter, the smooth paper, and the coarser texture of the enclosed tobacco, the rich smell came to me, different than the smell of smoke. Deep, earthy. I brought the cigarette to my mouth and placed it between my lips, awkwardly gripping it, watching the tip waver up and down, unsteady. I lifted my butt off the ground and dug in my back pocket for the matches. It took several tries before I had one lit, and my hand shook as I brought the match to the end of the cigarette and waited. The end burned a few seconds then went out. I fumbled for another match, struck it aflame, brought it to the tip and inhaled, drawing the heat of the flame into the cigarette, into my mouth. It stayed lit this time, and I shook out the match. Smoke curled into my mouth, too quick, too much, and I sputtered and coughed. Catching my breath I leaned back and watched the end of the cigarette burn brightly as I took another drag, pulled less smoke in, didn't swallow, just blew it back out. I didn't know I wasn't smoking the right way. All I knew was I felt ten years older, ten times cooler. Most of the time it took me to smoke that cigarette I spent just holding it, watching it in my fingers, switching it from hand to hand. I watched the smoke drift from the tip, traced patterns in the air around me with the light from the end, occassionally took another drag, and flicked the ash as often as possible. And when the cigarette was finished, when the last ash was dumped onto the grass beside me, I pinched the cigarette between my fingers and crammed it into the ground. I no longer smoke. I did, "socially" (i.e., when drinking), through high school and college. Once the parties stopped, the smoking stopped. Now I can't stand it and wish Lancelot would quit, although I'll admit to a lingering perversity that still makes me think he's sexy when he smokes.